This feature, originally known as Saturday Farmer's Market, was created by Heather at Capricious Reader, and then hosted by Chris at Stuff as Dreams are Made on.
I lost all the new pictures I just took. I uploaded them but I can't find them anyplace. I've combed through the entire computer and they are gone.
That includes the pictures for this post, so it will consist mostly of me blathering on.
Leaves from the neighbor's massive Maple tree are already making their way into the yard. Flowers are sprinkled sparingly across the garden and the edges of their leaves are traced with brown.
The weeds don't seem to be slowing their determined campaign to take over, and the afternoon sun is still punishing. But change, it rolls on.
We're losing the small Pluot tree. High winds knocked out my supports, and the sudden drop snapped off several heavily fruited branches. I tried to minimize the damage but the remaining branches are withering.
The other Pluot tree is also showing signs of stress. A few small branches are withering even with a lot of new growth new growth. I keep a close eye on the water needs of the trees, for obvious reasons, and that doesn't seem to be the problem.
Ah, the life of a farmer.
We suffered another loss this week. Our Australian Shepherd, Zeke, had been suffering from bladder cancer, but we thought he might still be with us for a while. Unfortunately, he suddenly stopped eating and we couldn't entice him with even the most tempting of previously forbidden contraband.
Epitaph to a Dog- Lord Byron
Near this spot
Are deposited the Remains of one
Who possessed Beauty without Vanity,
Strength without Insolence,
Courage without Ferocity,
And all the Virtues of Man without his Vices.
The Price, which would be unmeaning flattery
If inscribed over Human Ashes,
Is but a just tribute to the Memory of
“Boatswain,” a Dog
Who was born at Newfoundland,
May, 1803,
And died in Newstead Abbey,
Nov. 18, 1808.
When some proud son of man returns to earth,
Unknown by glory, but upheld by birth,
The sculptor’s art exhausts the pomp of woe,
And stories urns record that rests below.
When all is done, upon the tomb is seen,
Not what he was, but what he should have been.
But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his master’s own,
Who labors, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonored falls, unnoticed all his worth,
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth –
While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.
Oh man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power –
Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,
Degraded mass of animated dust!
Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit!
By nature vile, ennoble but by name,
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.
Ye, who perchance behold this simple urn,
Pass on – it honors none you wish to mourn.
To mark a friend’s remains these stones arise;
I never knew but one – and here he lies.
Many people find Autumn invigorating and inspiring. I'm not one of them; to me, Autumn and loss seem intractably entwined.
On the bright side, My freezer is almost full of delicious Roma tomatoes. My locally grown seedlings delivered well and I will try to save some seeds for next year.
Now is also the time to begin looking forward to next year's garden. I have ideas, but there is still a lot of work to do before I'd be able to implement any plans.
Have you started thinking about next year yet?
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